#modernpoet - Hello Poetry

I sometimes fear that one day the lock will crack, and all those quiet whispers will rise at once. The door will open. Light will flood the room. And there it will be— the final chapter, standing in the open. The pain won’t hide anymore. It will step into the daylight, moving through every line I write. What was buried will find its voice in poetry. What was hidden will finally be revealed. And somehow— through the power of verse— the ache I carried will begin to heal.

0

Mar 3

Mar 3, 2026 at 7:34 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

When the Silence Breaks

I sometimes fear that one day the lock will crack, and all those quiet whispers will rise at once. The door will open. Light will flood the room. And there it will be— the final chapter, standing in the open. The pain won’t hide anymore. It will step into the daylight, moving through every line I write. What was buried will find its voice in poetry. What was hidden will finally be revealed. And somehow— through the power of verse— the ache I carried will begin to heal.

20

Hidden between these lines, there’s a story— a blessing and a curse all at once. Every word holds a chapter. Every rhyme carries a life— the joy, the love, and the quiet, hidden strife. My poetry is a mirror. It shows you my soul without ever raising its voice. The pain I carry, the story I rarely share, finds its way into the verses— raw, honest, and laid bare.

0

Mar 3

Mar 3, 2026 at 7:14 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

Verses of the Unspoken

Hidden between these lines, there’s a story— a blessing and a curse all at once. Every word holds a chapter. Every rhyme carries a life— the joy, the love, and the quiet, hidden strife. My poetry is a mirror. It shows you my soul without ever raising its voice. The pain I carry, the story I rarely share, finds its way into the verses— raw, honest, and laid bare.

15

blinking in and out of days— a strobe-lit existence. time doesn’t pass, it flashes... wandering toward the promise of a quiet finale, as if rest were a gift one I could unwrap early. to search for unity among the ones who left— grief gathers us all together, like dust in corners. hunger clings— emotions, underfed; licking sweetness from practiced lies. there's a pie on the table— everyone’s dipped their ***** fingers in. what was warm is man-handled — what was whole is shared thin. aching for closure... the curtain falls shut, the day collapses— lights out. dark, until tomorrow strikes a wire inside my skull. a flicker... then— another light bulb burning again ...a light bulb moment.

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Feb 18

Feb 18, 2026 at 2:22 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

...a light bulb moment.

blinking in and out of days— a strobe-lit existence. time doesn’t pass, it flashes... wandering toward the promise of a quiet finale, as if rest were a gift one I could unwrap early. to search for unity among the ones who left— grief gathers us all together, like dust in corners. hunger clings— emotions, underfed; licking sweetness from practiced lies. there's a pie on the table— everyone’s dipped their ***** fingers in. what was warm is man-handled — what was whole is shared thin. aching for closure... the curtain falls shut, the day collapses— lights out. dark, until tomorrow strikes a wire inside my skull. a flicker... then— another light bulb burning again ...a light bulb moment.

42

I want a box for my heart – sometimes the chance to fight for love, most times to store it away from gaining more scars. Love is sometimes a joke — with an ugly punchline, still every day, you punch in for love, taking hits that time won’t clock out. You're either _boxing_ or _boxed in._

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Oct 24, 2025

Oct 24, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Boxing Lessons

I want a box for my heart – sometimes the chance to fight for love, most times to store it away from gaining more scars. Love is sometimes a joke — with an ugly punchline, still every day, you punch in for love, taking hits that time won’t clock out. You're either _boxing_ or _boxed in._

10

To fly in my dreams – I felt like a plane; my fingertips caught pieces of the wind, my whole body lifted by the ache of leaving. My feet forgot the ground, wings cut through clouds like truth through lies; my eyes shut, yet I saw everything – the pulse of direction, and the taste of sky. Goosebumps rising like warning lights, from an engine burning _faith for fuel._ Then the fall – sudden, violent, real. A flash, a scream, a crack – the dream quickly split open like glass on breath. I woke in the wreckage, a cold sweat for rain, still hearing my wings trying to hold me.

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Oct 23, 2025

Oct 23, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Dream in Descent

To fly in my dreams – I felt like a plane; my fingertips caught pieces of the wind, my whole body lifted by the ache of leaving. My feet forgot the ground, wings cut through clouds like truth through lies; my eyes shut, yet I saw everything – the pulse of direction, and the taste of sky. Goosebumps rising like warning lights, from an engine burning _faith for fuel._ Then the fall – sudden, violent, real. A flash, a scream, a crack – the dream quickly split open like glass on breath. I woke in the wreckage, a cold sweat for rain, still hearing my wings trying to hold me.

20

The smell of rain under my breath – clouds in my chest; a storm of words heavy as perfumed scent. Sent out to face the quests I half-meant – awkward friend requests; expecting you to stay in character, little as far as rewards go, “let’s just take it slow.” But how are we so quick to break a heart, to bring down a character? The occasional monster — or many; no point checking reviews; the question of criticism is never an _if_, only _when_. Hope is for anyone, but not for everyone – hopeful romantics, hopeless fanatics, hoping without action; life falls away from us piece by piece, like rain. The smell of wet soil, the rise of humidity; our moods changing with whoever’s around— false humility dressed as weathered wisdom. The weather of man is so unpredictable.

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Oct 22, 2025

Oct 22, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

The Weather of Man

The smell of rain under my breath – clouds in my chest; a storm of words heavy as perfumed scent. Sent out to face the quests I half-meant – awkward friend requests; expecting you to stay in character, little as far as rewards go, “let’s just take it slow.” But how are we so quick to break a heart, to bring down a character? The occasional monster — or many; no point checking reviews; the question of criticism is never an _if_, only _when_. Hope is for anyone, but not for everyone – hopeful romantics, hopeless fanatics, hoping without action; life falls away from us piece by piece, like rain. The smell of wet soil, the rise of humidity; our moods changing with whoever’s around— false humility dressed as weathered wisdom. The weather of man is so unpredictable.

17

A kiss in the dark; no theology could train the lips to speak the full scope of love — what faith teaches, touch unlearns. For a man in the weeds — _tangled_, unseen — is still something that grows, stretching toward light he may never reach. Still beauty never promised to be impressive. Ready to fall; not for love, but from the weight of being myself —this awkward custody of flesh and thought. It's truly a case argued by the mind, and tried by the heart. Walls of a lung breathing in and out, taking in their words, their dreams, their worth — as if loving meant learning to breathe through someone else’s lungs. But we may never know how far a love may go; it’s always a shot in the dark — blind in faith, eyes closed in trust, when lips meet and silence speaks for us. Only after they part does the night exhale the truth: was it worth the shot — or just the echo of our wanting?

0

Oct 22, 2025

Oct 22, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

What Faith Teaches, Touch Unlearns

A kiss in the dark; no theology could train the lips to speak the full scope of love — what faith teaches, touch unlearns. For a man in the weeds — _tangled_, unseen — is still something that grows, stretching toward light he may never reach. Still beauty never promised to be impressive. Ready to fall; not for love, but from the weight of being myself —this awkward custody of flesh and thought. It's truly a case argued by the mind, and tried by the heart. Walls of a lung breathing in and out, taking in their words, their dreams, their worth — as if loving meant learning to breathe through someone else’s lungs. But we may never know how far a love may go; it’s always a shot in the dark — blind in faith, eyes closed in trust, when lips meet and silence speaks for us. Only after they part does the night exhale the truth: was it worth the shot — or just the echo of our wanting?

18

To paint white lies on a white fence — to call it kindness, in your defence. To block out the ugly truths from reaching your close friends — but those blind lies keep them fenced. A combat sport with them — _fencing,_ no mask, no stance, no discipline. And me? I can’t claim innocence; truth slips from me like an offence — too sharp, too blunt, depending when. Of the sense you say you have, it measures less the less you choose to correct your friends. To paint white lies on a white fence, all in hopes to block offence — it’s art, you say — but art that hides is just pretense. Every brushstroke builds a wall instead, till your kindness feels like self-defence; painted white again and again. A play of “offence.”

0

Oct 22, 2025

Oct 22, 2025 at 5:30 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

A Play of Offence

To paint white lies on a white fence — to call it kindness, in your defence. To block out the ugly truths from reaching your close friends — but those blind lies keep them fenced. A combat sport with them — _fencing,_ no mask, no stance, no discipline. And me? I can’t claim innocence; truth slips from me like an offence — too sharp, too blunt, depending when. Of the sense you say you have, it measures less the less you choose to correct your friends. To paint white lies on a white fence, all in hopes to block offence — it’s art, you say — but art that hides is just pretense. Every brushstroke builds a wall instead, till your kindness feels like self-defence; painted white again and again. A play of “offence.”

19

_Walking down the aisles of fear_ – a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic, a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned. And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered, spinning, never quite finishing the lap. Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar? The echo that completes the pain, or the piece of you still aching to be whole? Some days feel like broken piano strings – and not every key fits success, as the minor hopes can also become our major regrets. And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place, living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest your mind, find another song to sing. One that knows your name. Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee – as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand – grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps washing away even as we walk forward.

0

Aug 5, 2025

Aug 5, 2025 at 3:26 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Steps in the Sand

_Walking down the aisles of fear_ – a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic, a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned. And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered, spinning, never quite finishing the lap. Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar? The echo that completes the pain, or the piece of you still aching to be whole? Some days feel like broken piano strings – and not every key fits success, as the minor hopes can also become our major regrets. And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place, living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest your mind, find another song to sing. One that knows your name. Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee – as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand – grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps washing away even as we walk forward.

21

Королевы ковров И кухонных красот, Отрывают пасти И уходят в ночь. Покоряют вершины, Зарываются в мох И по квадрату ковра Стираются прочь. 👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée

0

Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 1:28 AM UTC

BlochBauerandAdele

♠️ Королевы ковров

Королевы ковров И кухонных красот, Отрывают пасти И уходят в ночь. Покоряют вершины, Зарываются в мох И по квадрату ковра Стираются прочь. 👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée

9

Я люблю ебанутых и странных, Может, я ебанутый псих? Утоляю свою эту жажду Нестандартными смыслами книг. Бесконечно радуюсь Жизни, И всегда, и везде на коне! Но вопрос в голове — исторический: Ебанутая нахуй, ты где? 👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 8:28 PM UTC

BlochBauerandAdele

♠️ Я люблю ебанутых и странных

Я люблю ебанутых и странных, Может, я ебанутый псих? Утоляю свою эту жажду Нестандартными смыслами книг. Бесконечно радуюсь Жизни, И всегда, и везде на коне! Но вопрос в голове — исторический: Ебанутая нахуй, ты где? 👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée

9

To each stroke of luck—these strokes run wild, painted with ambition. Life is a wondrous garden: to some, every bloom is beautiful, to others, the loveliest things are guarded by thorns. What looks like harmony can be smeared on an ugly wall. The signature of familiar pain— it’s often signed as a lover. Two met by eyes, _blush._ Two lips in love, _brush._ Two weights of emotion, _crush._ And the quickest reason to fall? _A rush._ And long indulged is the ego— eager to rise above itself, but low on accepting its flaws. We are a world painted in delicate watercolours, slowly dripping away from this life, until we no longer remain as unique colours to paint this world. Still—they will remember our impression, through the force of our expression. And when we’re gone, on the great canvas in the sky, we shall hang up there instead.

0

Jun 21, 2025

Jun 21, 2025 at 3:34 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Brushstrokes and Thorns

To each stroke of luck—these strokes run wild, painted with ambition. Life is a wondrous garden: to some, every bloom is beautiful, to others, the loveliest things are guarded by thorns. What looks like harmony can be smeared on an ugly wall. The signature of familiar pain— it’s often signed as a lover. Two met by eyes, _blush._ Two lips in love, _brush._ Two weights of emotion, _crush._ And the quickest reason to fall? _A rush._ And long indulged is the ego— eager to rise above itself, but low on accepting its flaws. We are a world painted in delicate watercolours, slowly dripping away from this life, until we no longer remain as unique colours to paint this world. Still—they will remember our impression, through the force of our expression. And when we’re gone, on the great canvas in the sky, we shall hang up there instead.

20

You said, “You’re better now,” and I said, “Not quite.” I’m just quieter when I lose the fight. I’ve learned how to spiral without making a mess— I flinch like a debutante in danger— I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral. Healing looks holy if you’re far enough back; from across the room, I look redeemed. Up close, it’s mascara and panic attacks. I am so well-behaved now— I answer in lowercase, I apologize in advance. You’d never guess I once threw a chair so hard it split the act in half. If I miss you, I don’t text. I answer fake calls from you-shaped phantoms. We fight. I win. I stand in the doorway for dramatic effect. I practice my exits more than my lines. I stage a comeback with no audience. I watch the part of the movie where it all goes wrong, then rewind it. Then rewind it again. I am healing like a fraud. Like a martyr with stage fright. Like a saint who missed her cue. Like someone who knows I’m still your favorite bedtime story— but only when I end. I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans, my grief into good posture. I answer questions with questions. I wear rings so I have something to twist. I smile like it’s stage direction. I rehearse sanity like some girls practice wedding vows. I light candles for each version of myself you forgot. I document. I archive the damage— like it might get reviewed later by God. Or worse, by you. If you’re reading this: I didn’t mean it. (I meant every word.) If you’re avoiding this: good. I wanted you to squint at the poem’s edges and wonder if the blood was real. (You always liked your violence subtle.) (You always liked your girls learning your language— just to beg in it.) I pray more now. Not to be saved. Just to stay interesting. Do you know how hard it is to look healed when your rage is wearing a rosary and smiling in group photos? Every time I wanted to scream, I posted nothing instead. Silence is the loudest performance I’ve ever given. I don’t raise my voice. I sharpen it. I sweeten it. I lace it with facts you’ll misinterpret on purpose. My therapist says I intellectualize emotion. I say, “Thank you.” My boss says, “You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.” but she loves the **** I write. I tell them both I’m fine. I look fantastic when I’m about to snap. I know what I sound like. I know how this poem reads. That’s the worst part— it’s always intentional. That’s the best part— I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it, and I planned that too.

0

Apr 8, 2025

Apr 8, 2025 at 2:44 PM UTC

Kiernan515

I Cry in Dresses I’d Die In

You said, “You’re better now,” and I said, “Not quite.” I’m just quieter when I lose the fight. I’ve learned how to spiral without making a mess— I flinch like a debutante in danger— I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral. Healing looks holy if you’re far enough back; from across the room, I look redeemed. Up close, it’s mascara and panic attacks. I am so well-behaved now— I answer in lowercase, I apologize in advance. You’d never guess I once threw a chair so hard it split the act in half. If I miss you, I don’t text. I answer fake calls from you-shaped phantoms. We fight. I win. I stand in the doorway for dramatic effect. I practice my exits more than my lines. I stage a comeback with no audience. I watch the part of the movie where it all goes wrong, then rewind it. Then rewind it again. I am healing like a fraud. Like a martyr with stage fright. Like a saint who missed her cue. Like someone who knows I’m still your favorite bedtime story— but only when I end. I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans, my grief into good posture. I answer questions with questions. I wear rings so I have something to twist. I smile like it’s stage direction. I rehearse sanity like some girls practice wedding vows. I light candles for each version of myself you forgot. I document. I archive the damage— like it might get reviewed later by God. Or worse, by you. If you’re reading this: I didn’t mean it. (I meant every word.) If you’re avoiding this: good. I wanted you to squint at the poem’s edges and wonder if the blood was real. (You always liked your violence subtle.) (You always liked your girls learning your language— just to beg in it.) I pray more now. Not to be saved. Just to stay interesting. Do you know how hard it is to look healed when your rage is wearing a rosary and smiling in group photos? Every time I wanted to scream, I posted nothing instead. Silence is the loudest performance I’ve ever given. I don’t raise my voice. I sharpen it. I sweeten it. I lace it with facts you’ll misinterpret on purpose. My therapist says I intellectualize emotion. I say, “Thank you.” My boss says, “You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.” but she loves the **** I write. I tell them both I’m fine. I look fantastic when I’m about to snap. I know what I sound like. I know how this poem reads. That’s the worst part— it’s always intentional. That’s the best part— I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it, and I planned that too.

103

You look like the life I wanted when I was pretending I wasn’t dying. She’s beautiful, obviously, and it’s not like I’m still trying— I don’t miss you. I miss the girl I thought I’d get to be if you loved me right. Do you ever ache so privately it feels impolite? Because I do— in airports where I don’t arrive, in checkout lines I barely survive, on Wednesdays, laced with something sour, in stairwells meant for girls to cower, in dresses hung with rosary thread, worn to forgive what wasn’t said. I am so well-behaved now. I nod. I smile. I bite down. I curtsy in crisis. I don’t make a scene. I bleach my longing till it gleams. I’m not still hurt, I’m just rewired. I’m not that mad, I’m just so tired. I’ve kissed the quiet on both cheeks— but I riot in my lucid weeks. I’ve made peace with playing dead, but some nights I come back red— in dreams that loop, in memory's choir, where the girl kept smiling while walking through fire. You look like the life I lied about when I swore I didn’t mind. You should hear what I don’t say about you. It rhymes sometimes.

0

Apr 8, 2025

Apr 8, 2025 at 11:27 AM UTC

Kiernan515

It Rhymes Sometimes

You look like the life I wanted when I was pretending I wasn’t dying. She’s beautiful, obviously, and it’s not like I’m still trying— I don’t miss you. I miss the girl I thought I’d get to be if you loved me right. Do you ever ache so privately it feels impolite? Because I do— in airports where I don’t arrive, in checkout lines I barely survive, on Wednesdays, laced with something sour, in stairwells meant for girls to cower, in dresses hung with rosary thread, worn to forgive what wasn’t said. I am so well-behaved now. I nod. I smile. I bite down. I curtsy in crisis. I don’t make a scene. I bleach my longing till it gleams. I’m not still hurt, I’m just rewired. I’m not that mad, I’m just so tired. I’ve kissed the quiet on both cheeks— but I riot in my lucid weeks. I’ve made peace with playing dead, but some nights I come back red— in dreams that loop, in memory's choir, where the girl kept smiling while walking through fire. You look like the life I lied about when I swore I didn’t mind. You should hear what I don’t say about you. It rhymes sometimes.

35